


You and I Were Members

by reserve



Category: Baseball RPF
Genre: 2018-2019 Season, Kissing, M/M, New York City, POV Second Person, The Motherfucking New York Yankees
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-10-23
Updated: 2020-10-23
Packaged: 2021-03-09 00:36:00
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,774
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27165335
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/reserve/pseuds/reserve
Summary: You are kissing him.
Relationships: Gleyber Torres/Aaron Judge
Comments: 3
Kudos: 14
Collections: New Year's Resolutions 2020





	You and I Were Members

**Author's Note:**

  * For [yeats](https://archiveofourown.org/users/yeats/gifts).



> Title from Ozma's [_Baseball_](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=ZTr1uOsspic&ab_channel=WeezerFan4Ever).

They go out as a group sometimes. They try to keep it low-key even when they’re rolling ten deep. This is New York City; if more than half a dozen Yankees show up at Catch then it’s going to be in the Post the following day. All it takes is one bartender snapping a surreptitious pic and tweeting it out with the right hashtag.

 _Page Six_ is all over that shit before you can blink.

You know this because you’ve lived it. The club has rigorous media training: don’t post on ‘insta until the next day, don’t post on ‘insta at all unless the content has been pre-approved, don’t incite questions from an already rabid press core, and most of all: respect the pinstripes. Your social media presence has always been pretty sanitized by design; your requests more along the lines of “Got a tight fade; can I tag my barber?” rather than girls and Henny at 1OAK.

More Jeter than A-Rod.

You know how badly everyone wants you to be the former, not the latter. You’re trying, Lord, are you trying.

The team spends five idle days between the end of the ALDS and the start of the ALCS. Idle in the sense that everyone still in the first round is playing for their lives, while you and your teammates are playing simulated games, taking extended BPs and generally going stir crazy as the wait drags on. You feel it. You’ve spent your whole life waiting on the doorstep of times like these. You prayed for them, apologizing to God for wanting so badly, but unable to help yourself.

You watch a lot of tape during that nearly week-long stretch to keep yourself hot, to psych yourself up. You watch the scenes from the clubhouse celebration in Minny. It was only a few days ago but you keep coming back to it. Watching Tommy Kahnle fling himself into the floor is both hilarious and horrifying considering what they’ve been through this season. But—what you come back to the most is Gleyber’s ecstatic grin as your teammates drench him in beer and champagne. GT looks transcendent. He looks like he was meant to be right there, in that moment, and for some reason you can’t stop watching the way you wrap the championship belt around Gleyber’s waist.

He’s so small; he almost disappears in the circle of your arms.

The photo that someone took of Gleyber later—glistening and red-mouthed, one hip jutted out, metal bottle of Bud in hand as he shows off the belt—somehow got saved on your phone. You can’t be sure how. You're not mad about it.

“We need to go out,” Tyler says on day three of the long wait, before they even know who’s going to be on the next series’ roster. “This is killing me.”

“You don’t like going out.” You are undoing the laces on your cleats, bent nearly in half in front of your stall.

“Yeah, but. We gotta, otherwise everyone is gonna lose it.”

You look around the room. You're pretty sure Gardy has done something more horrible than usual to the steamed towels they keep around for after practice.

Tommy yells something entirely unintelligible.

“Please,” Tyler says. “ _Please_. I’ll even call my boy at Avenue. Get you the whole balcony, baby.”

You roll your eyes, but nod.

Tyler fist pumps the air because you might both be from California, but Wade is just that much of frustrated Jersey Shore bro. “Sick,” he says. “I’ll send out a group text.”

Later, upon further consideration, you conclude that it’s not exactly a hardship, going out to the club with the guys. Your team likes each other, your team is close—closer than the last two you played with. When Cam says they’re like a family it’s not just a presser-friendly platitude; it’s true. When they pack up their stalls (not for another two weeks, God willing) you know you’re going to feel as empty as that clubhouse in the off season.

So maybe you like simple shit. Would probably prefer an evening in the backroom at Homestead with the guys and a good steak, rather than a club, but—you also like Avenue. It’s dark, music so loud the walls shake, and it’s in the Meatpacking district so you barely stick out among the gallerinas and the bridge and tunnel crowd. You don't stand out as anything other than another very tall, moderately handsome man. You could be anyone in a club like that.

\--

Well, maybe not anyone, you think as the bouncer unhooks the red rope and lets you in before the rest of the substantial line. It’s Thursday, they’ll fly to Houston the following day at noon, and they won’t play until Saturday. No harm in having a night out before the next trial begins.

Just as you’d hoped, no one recognizes you as you push into the crowd. It’s always amusing to walk past a stranger in a Yankees cap and not get a second look, but that’s New York for you.

Tyler came through as promised and the balcony is populated by their teammates, overlooking the packed ground floor. Avenue has an almost Disneyesque baroque interior: plush leather booths, gilt and molding, walls splashed in blue and magenta lights, crossing over into lavender where they overlap. The ceiling is high, the cocktail waitresses are all in band aid dresses.

Pax brought Katie, which is chill. She’s sitting on the arm of one couch—arm draped around Pax’s shoulders, hair slicked back and shiny, while he smiles indulgently at her—telling a story that clearly has Greenie and DJ in stitches. It’s always nice to see guys bring their partners.

Tyler puts a drink in your hand as soon as he sees you. Their three tables are covered in top shelf and mixers, buckets of ice and various citrus.

“Bottle service, on my boy Dennis,” Tyler yells over the music.

“Nice,” you say.

“You know it.” Tyler grins. His smile could melt ice. He’s the most enthusiastic person you have ever met. You’ve been friends for half a decade, through the minors, into the majors, and back and forth depending on how the wind was blowing for Tyler Wade, journeyman.

You hope to stay friends for life. You say, “Good turn out.”

Tyler drops a look like, _duh_ , like you are the only person who had any doubt that people would want to blow off a little steam before they face the Astros.

“Have a little fun,” he says. “If not now, when, right?”

He's looking beyond you, behind you, toward the stairs.

“Huh?”

Tyler nods and raises one of his perfect eyebrows.

You turn to follow his gaze and _oh_ , right. Edwin is holding court at a table you hadn’t noticed yet. He’s sandwiched between Gio and Gleyber, both of whom are hanging on his every word. Edwin looks like a dad at a housewarming, Gio looks like he belongs, and Gleyber—

You blink. You take a sip of your drink.

Next to you, Tyler shrugs. “Not mad about it, dude,” he says. He nudges you with his elbow. “I know you. It’s cool.”

Thing is, Tyler does know you. Tyler knows you really well. Loves you anyway. Sometimes he calls you his big bro. That’s— _well_ , that’s complicated. But they don’t really talk about that. Never have. Hasn’t stopped Tyler from being there for you, from _seeing_ you, and in repeated acts of utter selflessness, telling you to take what you want.

Tyler was down in AAA when Gleyber tagged you in an Instagram story back in 2018. In it, you’re on the charter, and you’re jammed into the seat next to GT; Biggie is blaring through the portable stereo, and Gleyber catches you in the frame from just beside him, and well—

Tyler’s commentary said it all: “your face, bro.” Now he says, “your boy looks drunk. Time to shoot your shot.”

“Aye, aye, kemosabi,” you say.

—

“You drunk, GT?” Great start, but you can’t help but smile behind your glass as GT reflects on this question ponderously.

“Not drunk.” Gleyber pauses, still overly considering. He has the most expressive face. “Happy. Feels the same.”

“Haha, yeah. It can.”

“Yeah?”

You clear your throat. “Do you want a slice of pizza? From the place outside.”

“Do you know where the toilets are?” Gleyber replies. “Then pizza?”

“Sure, kid.”

“I’ve never been before.”

“Been where?”

“To the toilet. The one here. Do you know where it is?”

“Uh, yeah. Yeah, sure,” you say, unsure if this is what it could be.

—

“Kiss me,” Gleyber says, when you are alone, and in a toilet stall, which is big enough to be a club itself. But this is the meatpacking district, so can you truly be shocked?

You wonder, did you see this coming? Are you prepared?

“Come on,” Gleber says. “No one sees. No one.” He looks directly into your eyes. “No one cares here.”

“I—“

Gleyber touches your jaw. He puts his hands on either side of your face, on your cheeks, his fingertips pressing down just so into the bones beneath your skin. His eyes are so large, and his mouth looks so soft. This is sin, you think. This is, this is, this--

“Only if you want to.” Gleyber wets his mouth. “I thought. You want to.”

“You’re a trip, you know that?” You laugh, helpless. Nervous.

“A trip?”

You shake your head. “No, I just. Shhhhhh.” And you lean down to kiss him. You put your mouth on Gleyber’s, and you pull him close.

“Imagine,” you want to say, “if we were on the Rangers, if we were Royals. I wouldn’t be able to do this. I wouldn’t be able to haul you up against this dumb, soft wall in a fucking bathroom the size of an apartment, where I’m surely neither the first nor the last man to taste another man’s mouth. Where else could I keep my hands under your thighs. People would look, people would talk. Imagine how lucky we are to be in New York City. Anonymous when we want, known when we need to be, blessed every day.” Imagine, imagine, imagine.

“Good?” Gleyber says, pulling away. He has his legs around your waist now, his hands on your neck and your scalp, nails catching on your fresh fade, making you shiver, making your hips ache somewhere deep.

“ _Good_?” You scoff theatrically, play that bashful prince that makes ESPN swoon, and glance down before you tip his chin up with your finger and move to kiss him again. “More like great.”


End file.
